Grandfather Clock
by jesuisamber
Summary: Hatter reminisces - on the good, the bad, and the heart-wrenching moments in his life that made him the Hatter we know and love. Oneshot. Pre & post series.


**Title: Grandfather Clock.  
Author: justice incarnate.  
Word Count: 10, 510.  
Summary: Hatter reminisces - on the good, the bad, and the heart-wrenching moments in his life that made him the Hatter we know and love.  
Disclaimer: *Insert clever way to say, 'I don't own' here.*  
A/N: Yowza. I must say that this caused me much grief. Probably the longest story I've ever written (19 pages in Microsoft Word. :0) I dedicate this to Brook, because we both know that Andrew-Lee Potts makes one boss Hatter (much better than Johnny Depp.)

* * *

**

Hatter isn't quite sure when his life began.

If that makes any smidge of sense at all - for in his mind, it makes all the sense in the world. It would be a miracle for him to choose one specific period in his life that's _really _worth remembering. Most of his memories play an important role in his life, and all those vague recollections affected him somehow, someway.

His father always used to say, "Life begins when something happens that's worth remembering." It was his mantra, Hatter remembers. He'd say it all the time, and at the most peculiar intervals. Hatter later learns to live by this motto, but if it's true, then his life has begun many times.

It was always the same day to day basis, Hatter also remembers, when he was a child. His only concerns were mud crumpets and boxing classes and flashy fedoras. Hatter was quite an odd child, but it wasn't as if this fazed him in the slightest. His childhood has always been a slight blur, and maybe that's why his life actually never began then.

But this changed when he was eight. Eight, fresh youth, just beginning grade school. He hardly remembers the first half of the day, all the trippy-drippy nonsense about how the rest of their school year - and perhaps their miserable lives (Mrs. Merryweather was always quite negative) - would play out. No, this was not the part Hatter had catalogued vividly into his memory.

Hatter made his very first friend that day.

The boy's name was March, and he was quite the odd bloke. Hatter watched as he tripped over nonexistent bumps in his way, and would lay sprawled across the ground. It had happened _at least _three times that day, and each time, onlookers would keel over with laughter, their faces red and their eyes watering with mirth.

Hatter had pitied the boy, really. He wore a bright burning blush for the a good portion of the day, and sat alone in the corner, his large front teeth absently gnawing on a banana. He looked to be crying from afar.

This was when Hatter decided to sit opposite of him, and swing himself around in his chair. March had glanced up at him, his light eyes reflecting his astonishment. Hatter grinned at him. "Hi there," he said. "I'm-"

"Hatter," March finished for him around his banana. He barely looked at him, his eyes downcast, looking at the flecks of brown on the glossy wooden desk.

Hatter raised an eyebrow, it disappearing somewhere into his hairline. He supposed the boy was being very attentive during role call this morning, but that didn't cease Hatter from questioning, "How did you-"

Once again, Hatter's sentence was intervened with, "You're the only person in the class wearing a hat; it's not like it takes a nuclear scientist to figure it out."

Hatter had laughed, because when the boy - March - had loosened up, he had a sense of humor. "That was pretty funny."

The boy's - March, he kept correcting himself - already visible blush deepened to a rose red color on the apples of his cheeks. He bowed his head down, and placed the remnants of his banana onto the desk between him and Hatter. Then he extended his hand toward him. "I'm March."

Hatter gripped his hand in a firm shake. It seemed to be the seal of how their friendship began, two young boys shaking hands. Not like it was monumental, but between the two of them, Hatter supposes, it was. "Nice to meet you."

* * *

Hatter could say that's when his life began. After all, it was one of his fondest memories, that day. It had just sort of…stored itself into the filing cabinets of his memory. Hatter's memories for quite some time after that weren't as clear.

But that's not it, he knows. He feels it. Again, he's not quite sure. But that was all pish-posh, and not something he should waste his time pondering. Rather, he should just…bask in all of his most flamboyant memories.

* * *

Hatter remembers the first time someone he cared for died. It seemed impossible, improbable, unlikely. Death was like a myth in Wonderland, people lived to a countless age.

Hatter was at boxing when he got the call. His father stood watching him angrily pound his fists into a punching bag, pretending it to be Mrs. Merryweather. School was getting tougher, homework getting harder.

How the hell was he supposed to know the ratio of crumbs to butter? Math was never his strong suit, numbers always making his head swim with confusion. And at the tender age of thirteen, he'd much rather focus on his mission to swoon one Ms. Mary Ann.

Mary Ann, the beauty! How _delightful _that she **would **fancy someone else (all sarcasm intended) - though who the bloke was, no one could say. Hatter was doing everything in his power to make her his, but, alas, it was to no avail. This only made his punches more forceful, more anger-driven.

He imagined it was Jack, after all, what girl _didn't _fancy Jack? None of them, that was it. They all doodled silly little hearts around his stupid name, and Hatter _couldn't stand it. _(Hatter would later nearly lose another crush of his to Jack bloody Heart, only magnifying his dislike towards the royal.)

Yes, Jack was the one then. It was all quite obvious now. Mary Ann fancied the heck out of Jack - it was all lining up. And for this, Hatter would kill him (or, rather, the punching bag he was busy imagining was Jack, and Mrs. Merryweather, of course.)

"Hatter," his father's one-monotone voice. Hatter's wild, sporadic punches winded down, and, wiping the sweat off his brow, he looked into his father's stoic face. "That's a nice right hook you've got there."

Hatter clenched his right hand into a fist, admiring it. "Yeah," he mused. "I suppose."

His father clucked his tongue, his face screwed up like he'd just bitten into a lemon. "Son."

"Did you know Mary Ann likes Jack?" Hatter burst out angrily, his face flushed.

"I thought you said you didn't know who she likes. But that's besides the point-"

"Well, I think figured it out," Hatter rambled on, ignoring his father completely now. He was driven by his anger, it fueled him. He started swinging wildly at the punching bag again, picturing Jack's perfect face all bloody and bruised, courtesy of Hatter.

This, of course, would result in Hatter's imminent death - yes, he was sure every girl in school would slaughter him, if anything were to happen to "their" Jack.

"Hatter," his father yelled over the repetitive sounds of Hatter's bitter fists pounding into the punching bag. "Your grandfather has passed."

This, Hatter heard. Slowly, he lowered his fists. "How do you mean?" he asks cautiously, his voice sounding peculiar, even to his own ears.

His father looks at the ground. "I'm sorry, son," comes his voice, thick in Hatter's ears, as if his mouth had been filled with cotton.

Hatter hears a buzzing in ears, like the buzzing of a bee, but he can't register what it is. He can hardly register where he is. Time means nothing now; it's as if it's slowed to a gentle stop.

Cracks spider web themselves across Hatter's vision, and it's blurring, everything's blurring. His father is no longer visible, but he can hear his alarmed voice somewhere, echoing…

"Hatter!" he said. "Hatter!" he yelled. But it was all an echo.

Slowly, judiciously, he laid himself upon the ground, and cried.

---

"I'm sorry about your grandfather," Mary Ann said, her pretty pink lips frowning at him and her pretty blue eyes regarding him solemnly.

Hatter knows this is the only reason he's still going to school. With the funeral so near, and everyone trying to get situated to the new…circumstances, it's a wonder Hatter manages to squeeze in tea time.

He rubs his tired eyes, puffy from all the crying he'd been doing lately, and he wonders how much of a wreck he looked like in front of Mary Ann -

- But Mary Ann - the beauty, the wonder, the unattainable - is apologizing for Hatter's grief, and she's so close, he can smell the strawberry tea leaves on her skin. He may be thirteen, but this, he knows, is love.

He doesn't mean to, but he's ogling like an idiot. His mouth his probably hanging down, allowing nearby flies a resting place, and Hatter just wants to kiss her, long and sweet - he _was _quite the romantic.

Mary Ann, however, had different plans. She stared at Hatter for a really long time, her eyes slipping over his face like silk, and she makes a disgusted face at his expression, her eyebrows crinkled and her mouth turning up in a sneer. She cleared her throat, and tried to regain her composure. "I, um, gotta go," she said, backing away from his desk slowly.

Hatter frowns as she whirled around and shuddered. He knows what she's probably thinking. "Why is that kid so _weird?_" And usually Hatter's a lot more charming when around her. He's flirty and chivalrous. _What is wrong with me lately? _He thought.

March grinned at him. "Smooth, Hatter."

Hatter scowled at his ridiculous friend. "Shut it, you."

"I really am sorry," March said. "About your loss."

Hatter sighed, his eyes fluttering from exhaustion. This was only the fourth time, _today_, March had said this, his apologies. It wasn't like March could bring him back, or like March had murdered Hatter's granddad. His apologies were useless.

"I know you are," Hatter replied, burying his face into his hands. "I know you are."

---

The day of the funeral brought grief for most in Hatter's family, but was it sick of Hatter to feel relieved? Relieved that all this tension over the funeral arrangements had loosened up. Hatter knew it was wrong of him, but he supposed he wasn't the only one.

All day long, everyone shared their fondest memories of him. Hatter remembered drinking tea with his grandfather once a month and every time, he'd be told a different story, all rubbish fairytales and nonsense. Hatter told this to no one. He just sat back with his hat covering his eyes and waited for the service.

"You're awfully silent." His grandmother plopped down in the seat next to him, poor old woman, having to lose her longtime husband. She placed a hand on his knee, and Hatter lifted the brim of his top hat to regard her. She looked just as relieved as he felt.

"I know," Hatter said.

"Everyone here is so grief-stricken. I'm just a little shell-shocked. But not surprised. He's been ill for a long time, you know."

Sadness for his grandmother filled his body. "I know," he said, though he didn't.

"You're so young, Hatter. You have so much life to live. And life begins when-"

"-When something happens that's worth remembering. Father says it all the time."

"You're father _does _listen to me, then. He looks so much like your granddad did when I met him. A right pain in the arse, he was!" She laughs a long, throaty laugh.

"My father or granddad?" Hatter mock-asks to lighten the mood, though he's glad he's not in his grandma's position. He feels so sad for her, it's really just a shame.

"Your granddad," she sighs dreamily. "Always complaining, and always trying to swoon me. That man," she growls lightly. "He was a real piece of work. I remember one time that he took your father to the park when he was a baby. Almost lost him! I yelled till I lost my voice for that one."

Hatter frowned at his grandmother. She wore her same, soft smile, and the same mirth was still in her eyes. "Granddad used to tell me stories during our tea time. Stories of ravens and writing desks and crumbs in the butter."

"He was an eccentric man," she comments.

Then Hatter grins. It's almost as if he can hear his grandfather's voice in his ear - _"But, no one knows the answer. 'Why is a raven like a writing desk?' Not one person can answer that. I, however, can."_

_And Hatter, used to his grandfather's custom way of emphasizing way beyond the point, would ask, "What's the answer?"_

_This is where his granddad would grin at him, highlighting the laugh lines framing his mouth; he was always quite a joyous man. "There isn't one. There can be a number of answers, but not a single correct one. Guess that's how life is as well. You can have all the answers, and still be wrong."_

"_There's got to be an answer," Hatter would say. "No one asks a question without supplementing an answer. It defeats the purpose of a riddle."_

"_Maybe that's the ingredients of the perfect riddle!" He would exclaim, slamming his empty tea cup down for a clarified emphasis. Always, always emphasizing. "People can ponder for ages, but everyone thinks there to be an answer. So no one says, 'There is no answer.' The perfect riddle."_

_Hatter would shake his head, a weary little shake, before polishing off the last of his tea and peering into the tea leaves littering the bottom of the cup. "Maybe there is an answer. Maybe everyone's guess, despite how foolish it may sound, is the correct answer."_

"_Perhaps," his granddad would consider, bringing a thoughtful finger to his chin. "The perfect riddle," he'd repeat in a sigh._

"_Perfect," Hatter would echo. - _"He was," he agreed with his grandmother, "entirely eccentric."

"I think the services are starting soon. I hope no one cries too much. The last thing he'd want is a sad funeral," she asserted.

Hatter nodded in agreement. Then wrapped his slender arms around his frail grandmother. She gave a little gasp of surprise, but returned the hug. "You really miss him," Hatter pronounced, pulling back from the hug to look her in the face.

"I do," she affirmed. "He was always meant for me, and no matter what stupid things he did, or _how many _stupid things he did, I should say, I loved him all the same." She turned a set of sad eyes on Hatter. "He was a likeable man. You miss him too."

Hatter thought of all the mad things his grandfather did. So vibrant, and always smiling. It was weird to see him laying so formally in the casket, stiff and cold and so…lifeless. Hatter wanted to turn up his lips, to put the same smile he always wore back on his face. He sniffled a little. "I do," he agreed. "I miss him a lot."

"Me too," his grandmother sighs beside him. "But we mustn't grieve so much. Rather, smile, because that's what he's doing. He's looking at us from above and wishing he could be out of that dreaded penguin suit," she gestured to the casket where he laid, and would lay forever. "But he's smiling. He always is."

"Always," Hatter agreed. "Always."

After that, Hatter learned to smile more often; like his granddad.

* * *

When Hatter was fifteen, he got into his first fight. A fist fight, with a bloke whose name wasn't worth remembering. All he _did _remember was that he got really pissed at the boy for teasing him - for being friends with March, for fancying a girl whose feelings would never be mutual, and for his ridiculous hat - and he hit him.

The boy hit back-

-And Hatter lunged at him, knocking him to the floor, his fists steadily beating into any inch of his body he could get. He could feel the anger, the annoyance, the adrenaline pumping in his blood, fueling his bloody fists.

The boy was hitting back, naturally. Rather than cowering and waiting for Hatter's anger to wind down, he raised his own set of fists and aimed for Hatter's face. His jaw, his cheek, his eye. Pain bloomed across Hatter's skin; a white starburst of pain temporarily blinded him, throwing stars across his vision.

The inhabitants of the classroom gathered around to watch and Mrs. Merryweather was screeching like an enraged wildebeest, but Hatter couldn't hear her. He could hear the thumping of his heart, and his fists. He could feel the throbbing pain being delivered to his body as the boy continued to swing blindly.

Hatter clenched his right fist - _his "sledgehammer," the deadly weapon _- and brought it back as far as he could -

- And hit the boy square in the nose. Blood spurted out almost instantly, running down the boy's face and staining Hatter's fist. The boy was screaming, his hands flying up to gingerly touch his bloody nose, broken by the looks of it. The classroom gasped, and Hatter was pried off the boy by a fuming Mrs. Merryweather. Her eyes reflected her anger, bright and fused with lightning.

Hatter wiped the boy's blood off his fist, onto his pants, and tried to listen to Mrs. Merryweather, but his head was spinning, and the boy was still voicing his pain - quite loudly. "The Headmaster's office now, Hatter!" she cried wildly, and Hatter bowed out of the classroom, amongst the shell-shocked onlookers.

This actually wasn't what Hatter remembered so clearly, what was imprinted on his brain, what was one of his fondest memories. Nor was it the fight with his mother that night - he'd been suspended for a week, and as any mother would do, she went mad.

No, it was that night that Hatter tried to run away.

He laid in bed, thinking of the events of that day. His anger, the boy's anger, Mrs. Merryweather's anger, the Headmaster's anger, his mother's anger. His mother blamed it all on his, "teenage testosterone." And she also complained, "boys always feel the need to get into fights. Why can't they sit down and talk rationally?"

Hatter could've responded plenty of ways, "Because we're not females," was his number one answer, but that would've earned a slap in the face - and he'd already had a black eye, he needn't deal with more pain.

He knew a number of things: he really ought to learn that bloke's name, he felt this little niggling bite of guilt in his stomach, and he really wanted to get the hell out of Wonderland.

He knew of only one way to do it, but how was he supposed to _get _to the looking glass? Just trying to get to the Hearts Casino would be certain death, suicide. He supposed he could live on the streets of Wonderland - perhaps he could take up residence in the tea shop.

Before he knew it, he had risen from his bed. He tried to convince himself to get back in, to sleep and let this day dissipate, but he was already pulling on a jacket, slipping his feet into a pair of slippers, and placing a hat atop his head. He slowly crept out of his room and descended his staircase.

A loud, drawn out tolling made him nearly jump out of his skin, his heart beating into his ribs. He shot a panicked glance at the grandfather clock in the corner, watching the golden pendulum swing, swing, swing…It was three a.m.

Slowly tiptoeing down the stairs - and wondering why they didn't creak so loud in the daytime - he thought of all the places in Wonderland he could go. He thought of the Hospital of Dreams; he could fake ill for a room and a meal. He wouldn't be able to pay though, and that could end in a deal of trouble on his part.

He could hide in the school perhaps, living in the teacher's lounge and still attending, as though nothing was wrong. Although with his lack of extra clothing, and the fact that his mother would alert everyone in Wonderland about his disappearance. So that one was negative.

He could hide in March's basement. Live off of leftovers and shower only when his parents were both gone. His parents never went down there anyway, claiming it was haunted. A few ghouls and ghosts weren't any problem for Hatter at all.

But March would squeal, he knew. He was rubbish at keeping secrets, anyway, and especially a secret as big as Hatter taking up residence in his basement. No, he'd slash that one as well.

There was only one place left, he thought as he cautiously pulled the door open and stepped out into the night. And that place was the woods. For now, anyway. Just live out there for a day or two, before making his journey to the Hearts Casino. From there, he'd figure it out.

His descent through the streets was a quiet one. The night was silent, but not eerily silent. Calm silent. The lampposts overhead guided his way across the cobble-stoned streets, and too soon, he was facing the expanding wood.

He knew what was in there: jabberwockies. He could very well die, but something was pushing his feet forward, and he realized he was walking into the woods, into the thicket of trees, into the jabberwockies nest. With a silent prayer that he'd survive the night, he began to trek through the trees, plants, and harmless creatures. Harmless…for now.

The soppy leaves and branches overhead had scarcely let in any light from the moon, and Hatter's eyes were taking long to adjust to the dark. He tripped a few times, but he brushed it off each time he went down onto the damp ground.

He stumbled farther forward, his arm swinging out to catch himself on the rough base of a tree. He looked out into the expanding darkness, the eerie darkness, the beyond-all-dark darkness. In the distance, possibly a mile off, he saw the flicker of a light. A warm, bright glow…like a campfire. That was impossible, though. Who would roast marshmallows at three o'clock in the morning? And in the middle of the Tulgey Wood? No, he was hallucinating, from exhaustion. He was awfully tired and needed a rest.

That was it. Of course that was it. When Hatter looks back on it now, he realizes that if he hadn't run away(or made an attempt to, anyhow), the following wouldn't have happened.

Although he was tired and could've laid down for a rest, he kept moving, trying to pinpoint the source of the light as it grew closer…and closer…and closer.

It did turn out to be a campfire; which should've been the most shocking, but it wasn't. There was a man by the campfire, wearing a burgundy waistcoat and a friendly smile. His hair was gray and thin, and he looked to be rather odd. He was holding his hands out to the fire, trying to soak in the warmth it emitted. "Hello there!" he said jollily. "Sit down, boy! Sit down!"

And Hatter, not wanting to offend the odd man, sat opposite of him. The flames burned brightly, the heat blurring the man's face from Hatter's angle. He could feel the sticks and twigs beneath him, and hear the distant roar of a jabberwocky a long way off. It was then he drew the conclusion that the man was mad. "Who are you?"

The man glanced up at him, ripping his eyes off the smoldering flames. "I am a man," he said. "Like yourself, though you look quite young-"

Hatter shook his head. "I mean, 'What's your name?'" he clarified for the man. The Man, capital T, capital M. His official title for the time being. The-Man, with a hyphen. Or no hyphen. Just "The Man."

"I haven't got one. A name is nothing but a mere label, and I, as a human being, reserve the right to not be labeled." He turned his nose up regally. The Man looked rather regal, around the madness in his eyes and his wildly mused hair. More mused than Hatter's, and that was saying something.

"Oh," was all Hatter said, because that was all he could think of to say. He stared down at the ground, feeling the heat from the flames lick his skin, and he slipped his jacket off, using his hand to fan himself. He shifted back away from the fire. Fire, that could attract a jabberwocky. _Mad_. Yes, The Man was mad.

"What's your name, boy?" The Man questioned, narrowed eyes staring at Hatter.

Hatter hesitated. Then he replied, "David. David Hatter. But I prefer to be called Hatter."

The Man guffawed, his loud laugh booming from deep within his chest. Hatter crouched down and whipped his head around fiercely. What if a jabberwocky had heard? Then it would be both of their behinds. "I should've guessed," The Man muttered to himself, clasping his sides and still laughing. "You are wearing a hat after all!"

Hatter touched the fedora atop his head. If he was going to be honest, The Man was frightening him just the slightest. He wished he were asleep in his warm cozy bed at home. So much for running away. "Yeah, I am," he agreed numbly, his voice distant.

"You look awfully young," The Man commented. "How old are you?"

"Mentally or physically?" Hatter asked, slightly jokingly. He _was _awfully tired, after all. He just wanted sleep, and regretted leaving in the first place. _Spur of the moment gone wrong_, he thought tiredly. _Just as such, it happens to me. Of course._

"Hmm." The Man seemed to be considering for a moment, but he decided. "Mentally. How old do you feel?"

"Right now? I feel about seventy-eight." Hatter sighed as he spoke, and the man looked like he was considering something.

Hatter wasn't lying either. His entire body felt run down, and he knew it was a foolish idea to attempt to run away in the first place. He'd probably be asleep by now. Cozy asleep in his bed…_at home. _He was an idiot.

"What about physically?" The Man asked, scratching his head.

"I'm, uh, fifteen."

"Peculiar!" The Man burst out, making Hatter start. He let out the breath of air he'd sucked in rapidly, holding his head in his hands. "Peculiar that you are so youthful, but waste your days feeling so old. You're practically still a baby."

"I, uh-" Hatter didn't know what to say. The Man was starting to make his head spin, bursting out with his random tongues and wisdom - or, what Hatter was assuming was wisdom. The Man's special brand of wisdom, sprinkled with his madness.

"What're you doing out in the wood in the middle of night anyway? Couldn't sleep?"

Hatter muttered, "Something like that."

"That's why I'm here. I'm here every night when I can't sleep. The woods always calm me," he says this all dreamily, like he's been sucked into his thoughts and is relishing in them. "But I think you should go home. You look awfully tired and, frankly, I don't think you'd survive a night on your own."

Hatter widened his eyes at The Man. "What do you-"

"I, too, tried to run away when I was younger," The Man informed him. Hatter, shocked beyond all reasoning, just gaped at him. "But it's never worth it in the end, you realize, when you're craving your mother's homemade stew and the warmth of the bed you've always hated, but now you suddenly love."

Hatter thought of the comfort provided by his bed, like sleeping on a cloud, feeling it conform to his body and suck him in. He rose from the ground and pulled his jacket back on, ready to return home, before anyone woke. Ready to be back where he knew he was meant to be.

"I think that…I'm gonna go home."

"Good choice," the man said. "Goodbye now."

"Yeah, goodbye."

And Hatter returned home, to his loving bed. No one knew he left in the first place. No one needed to know. No one knew…except The Man.

He never did see that man again.

* * *

A few years (and girlfriends) later, Hatter sat in his office - for he was now running the tea shop - clutching his tea saucer and glaring at the clock in the corner, willing it to speed up.

Life was calm after he tried to run away, after the fight, after that _day. _Nothing of major significance happened, a few angry moments, a few pulled heartstrings, but it was all just a blur, a morphing events that in the end amounted to nothing.

Hatter's twenty-first birthday, though, was a day to remember. For the good or for the bad, he couldn't decide. Good because he saw the road March was going down, and wasn't going to be the passenger in that ride. Bad because he lost his best friend, his _brother._

Before that happened, though, he was, well, glaring at the clock in the corner. Wiling it to be six o'clock already. Six o'clock: tea time! Hatter had come to the conclusion that _that _was his favorite time of day. The time of day when he could let his worries drift out from under him, watch them float away whilst he sipped his tea - real tea, not those pathetic bottles of emotion the queen was pushing. Nothing mattered to him when it was tea time; Shortage in Passion? Who cared! A fight amongst the bidders? Yeah, and?

So, Hatter did love tea time. And on his birthday. Tea time on his birthday. Yeah, didn't have quite a ring to it. But that didn't stop him from repeating that mantra in his head. Tea time on his birthday, tea time on his birthday…

When the clock tolled six, he whooped with glee, grinning broadly and scrambling forward to grab the book on his desk, opening it to the page he was on and setting it onto his lap. His eyes scanned the page, drinking the words. _Edwin and Morcar were the first to suggest the idea that-_

As he read, he brought his cup to his lips, letting the rich scent of Earl Grey tickle his nose, tease his senses. He opened his mouth, nearly letting the liquid touch his tongue, but not just, almost sipping, his taste buds already registering it's familiar aroma. Just as the liquid began to slide down his throat, there was a knocking at the door.

"Gah!" Hatter jumped in surprise, making the tea from his cup spill down the front of his shirt. The stinging hot liquid made him burst with a string of profanities, dabbing at it with a piece of paper he snatched off his desk. "Just a minute," he called to the guest at his door. Slamming his cup down onto his desk and growling like a predator whose prey managed to escape, he jumped up to answer the door, still dabbing at his shirt.

Throwing the door open, he ground out, "Listen Dormy, I told you that when it's-" He stopped short upon seeing who was standing there. It was a man, with white-blonde hair curled up to look like horns, and two large, protruding teeth gnawing on his lower lip. "March!" Hatter exclaimed happily, face reflecting his surprise. He and March didn't talk as much as they used to - he worked for the Queen, and Hatter didn't approve. But it was always nice to see his old time buddy.

"Hello Hatter," March said, his expression stoic, his stance rigid and stock still. Hatter crinkled his eyebrows at him; something was wrong with him. He wasn't always this…cold. The only other time he had acted like this was in their third school year, when Hatter broke March's wooden soldier. He didn't mean to, and the whole thing become a blur after a few weeks, but he just remembered how indifferent March was toward him for the following few weeks.

"You're just in time for tea," he told him, stepping aside to allow his buddy entrance into his office, his sanctum. He knew that soon enough, March would tell him what was wrong; Hatter just needn't badger him about it. March shuffled in, still standing rigidly. He was neither smiling nor frowning.

"I see. Happy birthday, Hatter," his one-monotone voice carried no elation. Nothing but a birthday wish.

Hatter grinned at him. "It'd be a happy birthday if Mary Ann pranced in here wearing a cocktail dress and expressing her dire love for me."

March didn't laugh. He stared. For quite some time, before speaking. "I've come here to ask you if you changed your mind."

Hatter frowned in confusion. "Changed my mind? About what?"

"About how you feel about the Queen. About what she's doing…with the Oysters. I mean, you sell the bloody emotions she's stealing from them and yet you don't approve of her methods. When you haven't even seen," his voice raises to a mild-yell. "what kind of work goes into it, it's really a beautiful process."

Hatter frowned again. He felt a tidal wave of anger crash over him, making him grit his teeth. "We don't need the oysters," he said through his clenched teeth. "We can feel our own happiness, we just choose to steal theirs."

"We can't feel our own happiness all the damn time," March argued, face contorting with anger.

"That's life," Hatter retaliated.

"We can't all be like you," March said, syrupy-sweet voice like death in Hatter's ears. He was angry, so angry, so suddenly. He wanted to hit March, and to hit him hard. Was it testosterone? Possibly. All he knew was that he wanted to hurt his friend; his friend who was here on the Queen's orders. Of course. Wasn't coming to see his friend, but to check up on him. Hatter didn't know what kind of work he did for the Queen, but it had to be pretty damn important, if she was sending him to personally interrogate Hatter.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hatter hissed, fists clenching.

"You turn the blind eye, Hatter," March nearly yelled, his voice raising another octave. "You feel what you choose to feel. You only want to feel the good, and in that way, you and the Queen are the same. You both want to feel the good, not the bad. You just have different methods of doing it."

Hatter cried, "I'm not like her!" And it was true. He thoroughly disagreed with the Queen, and it wasn't too long ago he was recruited into the Resistance. Dodo wasn't his biggest fan, but he knew Hatter would make a good ally, being so close to one of the Queen's toys - Dodo called anyone who worked for the Queen her 'toy', and Hatter guessed that's what March was.

"She admires you, your strategy." March smiled at him. "Living life on the fence, tottering precariously. Will he do this or will he do that? No one knows for sure with you Hatter; you're a mystery. She wants you to ally with her, and she wants you to see for yourself what kind of work goes into the whole process of getting the emotions. It's not just crumpets and tea, it's a lot of hard work."

"You think that I wanna see those emotion-stealing mongrels doing their filthy jobs-" Hatter stops himself, careful not to say anything stupid, or it'd be off with his head. Scraping together what miniscule amount of composure he had retained over the years, he said, "My opinion stands. I don't agree with her."

"So you agree with the Resistance - a bunch of idiots who think they know what they're talking about when they haven't got the slightest idea of what's going on?" March burst out, his composure long gone.

Hatter set his mouth in a straight line. "I never said that."

"I know you're in with them, don't try to fool me. I have known you for years."

Hatter grinned - he couldn't help it, he'd been feigning it off for as long as he possibly could, but it was doing no good. He grinned, and he grinned widely. "You haven't got the first clue about me. You think you do, but…you don't." March did know about him, of course. He knew, even without Hatter telling him, that he was in the Resistance. It was going to take some heavy lying on Hatter's part to convince him otherwise.

"You think I don't?" March questions. "Gosh, I'm beginning to wonder why we were even friends in the first place. You are nothing but a fool and-"

"-And I felt bad for you," Hatter continued for him. "You were the nerdy kid in the back of the class, twiddling his thumbs and being made fun of. I pitied you. And," he added to March's shocked and hurt expression. "I was beginning to wonder the exact same thing."

Hatter didn't know what he was saying, what he was doing. He was throwing away years of friendship - over ten years worth of friendship - just because they stood on different political - or whatever it bloody was - lines.

But he could feel that clench in the pit of his stomach, and the bile churn of hatred, and he wanted nothing more than to see March hurt, to see him feel a bitter pain. He wanted to cause the pain. He remembered the fight when he was fifteen. He wanted him to bleed.

"Alright Hatter." March's voice was thick, laced with anger, laced with the hate that Hatter felt. He reached into the inside of his jacket-

-And drew out a gun. Hatter swallowed nervously, a spike of fear making his mouth turn bone dry. He tried to seem cool, but he could tell that he looked scared - could tell by the mirth in March's eyes. "Where's the Great Library?"

Hatter blinked, trying to erase the image of the gun. Surely he was imagining it, because March would never pull a gun on him. He was…well, he was March! Which, incidentally enough, was starting to become a very lame excuse.

That was the first time March had asked Hatter this question; but it certainly wasn't the last. Hatter would no longer than a few years later hear the same burning question. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, or rather, lied.

March cocked the gun. "You're lying."

Hatter licked his dry lips, fearfully. "Wish I was. But I'm not. You have my word."

March laughed slightly. "How do I know your word is genuine?"

Hatter's eyes narrowed. "You know me, do you not?"

March didn't respond, he looked to be thinking something over. Hatter crossed his fingers. God, he hoped this worked. He really hoped this worked. His heart beat into his ribs rapidly. Slowly, March lowered the gun, and Hatter held in his breath of relief. Crushing relief. Complete utter relief. "Well, then Hatter. I guess this is it."

Hatter clutched the paper he'd forgotten he was holding. Using it as an outlet of his anger. "I guess it is," he confirmed. And then March was leaving, shutting the door behind him, and Hatter was alone.

It wasn't too much longer Hatter would hear the same question - as aforementioned - from the same man, once a friend, now nothing but a faceless monster. The Queen's "toy," her obedient little lapdog. Hatter wouldn't answer that time either, he wouldn't have to.

And he'd evade death that time too.

* * *

Only a couple of years later, three to be exact, Hatter was sitting alone in his office. It was tea time, but he just couldn't enjoy it the same. He sadly sipped his tea, thinking of his monotonous boredom, and the possible cure for it.

He was just coming up short, when he heard a familiar voice. "Hatter," he said. Followed by, "I've found her! Can you believe? I've found her!"

Hatter spun around to face him. "What is it, Ratty? I haven't got all day."

Ratty beamed at him - a filthy sort of beam, but a beam nonetheless. "I've found her! Alice! Alice-Of-Legend Alice! She's here, Hatter! She's real!" Hatter rolls his eyes. He knew Ratty probably nicked a Lunacy tea from somewhere, and this was the aftermath of its affects.

"Yes, Ratty, I'm sure you have. Now, do you mind, but it is tea time?" He'd say anything to get the man out of his office; for he smelled, and the stench was strong, even from Hatter's position nearly ten feet away.

"No, Hatter! _I've found her! _Don't move, I'll go get her!" Ratty quickly scurried off, a certain bounce in his step. Hatter fanned the air around his nose. What an odd stench, one he couldn't put his finger on. That was Ratty for you, he supposed.

"Where would I go?" Hatter muttered to himself, shaking his head. He pushed up the brim of his hat, eager to see the girl Ratty had mistaken for "Alice." After all, Alice wasn't real. She was just a myth, anyone in Wonderland could tell you that.

This ought to be good.

---

She certainly didn't _look _like the way Alice was described. For one, she was much older than everyone's general vision of Alice.

But she was rather pretty, so Hatter paid the price.

---

His day with Alice was a blur, all its events morphing around her face; she was all he could see that day. Vague, fuzzy memories, nothing of certain significance. But Alice**Alice**_Alice_ was there. And wasn't that all that mattered?

---

Dr. Dee and Dr. Dum whoop and laugh around Hatter - confined Hatter, the ropes around his wrists slicing into him, making his skin slick with blood. He wants to fight back, fight against the electricity they were pushing into him, the bolts of power causing him pain beyond all belief.

He craved to fight back, to hurt them. To hurt March, who watched all - or Hatter supposed he was watching. He can't tell if he can see or not, with his cookie jar head, no eyes. But he can hear, so he's able to see too, Hatter thought.

"Leave us," came March's robotic voice. Hatter was glaring at him with all his might, mentally making him bleed. He knew March can feel the weight of his glare, the pain inflicted in it.

All Hatter could see was Alice. He was glaring at March, but he sees _her_. He knew he'll get out of there, to be with her. He _had _to. "Where's the Great Library?" March was asking again, and Hatter was giving him a look of pure death, and suddenly, they were fighting.

Hatter won, naturally. He thanked the heaven's for that powerful sledgehammer of his.

---

He remembers going after her - thanks to the convincing (and threatening) of Charlie.

He remembers the first time they shag too, but that, he'd like to keep to himself.

* * *

When Hatter asked Alice to marry him, he had this fear of her looking at him disgustedly, and sneering her, "no." The ring was an exact replica of the stone of Wonderland; he knew Alice would love it, but he worried she'd think it was too, "Jack."

He didn't build up to it at all that day. It was just a normal day; no romantic dates, just the two of them, two halves that together made a whole. They were _meant _to be.

He spent that whole day fretting. Any chance he was alone, he paced. He tried not to seem too paranoid around her, and was nearly failing at it. He'd told her he was feeling a little under the weather, and she skeptically believed him.

But as they sat holding each other, and Hatter began to reach into his pocket, Alice looked up at him. "Hatter?" she asked. "I have to tell you something."

He swallowed nervously, his hand around the box that held the ring. So much for perfect timing. "Yeah? What is it?"

She looked up at him with her bright cerulean eyes - she really was beautiful. He wondered what it was she was going to tell him. Did she two-time him? Did she want to leave him? His head raced with frightening thoughts.

She was going to leave him. That was it. That's why her eyes were fearful. Hatter didn't want her to leave. She loved him, she'd said so herself.

He couldn't think of what he'd do if she left. He'd have to go back to Wonderland - there really was nowhere in the Oyster's world where he could stay. Perhaps he could rebuild that thriving business of his.

But he wanted to be with her, forever. He was actually in love - not that rubbish love he felt towards Mary Ann. This was a real; a vessel in his heart had opened up, welcoming all the love Alice could give. It sounded pathetic, but he'd sooner die than be without her.

Yes, so it was as pathetic as it sounded, wasn't it?

"I'm pregnant," she whispered, and Hatter cried out, all ready for the defense of, "But I love you!" He stopped mid-sentence, reeling back to go over what she had just said. So…she wasn't leaving him…?

"Wait - what?"

She whimpered at him, a scared look coming over her face. "Oh God, you're not happy about this! Oh no! I should've been more careful, you probably don't want a child-"

"Alice," he cut her off. "I'm thrilled, now quit talking your rubbish. I just wasn't expecting that. I'm sorry for my reaction."

"_Thrilled?" _she questioned. "Wow."

"I am," he confirmed, gripping her upper arms and looking her square in the face. "And I love you. Which is why…" He fished around in his pocket, before retrieving the ring. She gasped upon seeing the box.

"Hatter…what're you-" Her eyes were wide, on the verge of popping out of her head. She gasped as he opened it, showing her the ring

He bit back the fear consuming him. This was it, now or never. "Will you, Alice Hamilton, marry me, David Hatter?"

There was a moment of silence. A moment of which Hatter wanted to do one - or all - of the following: jump off a cliff, run away, scream like a girl and _then _run away, and crawl under a hole. He would probably do the majority of them given the chance she said, "no."

"Yes. Yes I will."

"What?" He asked. He must have had a hard time hearing, because it was almost impossible that she'd say yes.

"I'll marry you, Hatter," she confirmed the impossible.

"Really?" he nearly squealed out, his heart expanding with love.

She pressed her warm lips to his, molding them together perfectly. The perfect match, the perfect kiss, the perfect moment.

"Really."

---

They'd gotten married a week after his proposal. Just so that Alice could fit into her mother's old dress before she dilated too much. It was more like they got hitched - only Alice's mother, Hatter's parents, and Charlie showed up.

But it was a beautiful ceremony in Alice's foyer. Her mother didn't bother asking why their was a man dressed like a knight attending; she was getting used to their way of not answering the most hard-hitting questions.

It was a eight and a half months later when Charlie died.

Hatter returned to Wonderland periodically. To check how things were going, make sure everything was still in check. He returned one day to be greeted by Jack.

At first, all the repressed hate towards Jack bubbled up to the surface, and he did his best to keep his cool. "Hi Hatter," Jack said.

"Jack," Hatter replied, icily cool toward him. Jack's pale eyes narrowed.

"I'm here to tell you…" He paused, hesitating before continuing. "Your friend Charlie died last night. Natural causes. He was very old."

Hatter listened without quite knowing what to say, so he kept silent. When he returned that night, and told Alice, she gave him a sad look.

"What?"

"He's, uh, dead. I'm sorry." He remembered then everyone apologizing to Hatter when his granddad died, and how annoying it got. They were not the reason he was dead, and so their apologies meant nothing.

Hatter felt this sick kind of sad in the pit of his stomach. As much as didn't like to admit, he'd actually grown fond of the odd knight. He would miss his clever musings and his funny ways.

Alice didn't cry. She gave him a sobering look, and curled up into him, letting his arms wrap around her. One sniffle, that was it. Before she fell asleep.

Hatter looked around him. Everything here felt like home now, but it wasn't home. Perhaps it'd never be home. He knew where his home was. As comfortable as Alice's house was, it wouldn't hold the same feeling of his birthplace.

A feeling of homesickness washed over him, and a feeling of sad for Charlie, and a feeling of excitement for his soon-to-be son or daughter. He began to speak, not to Alice, not to himself, but rather…to someone else.

"Granddad," he began, followed by. "I know you're there. And I know you're listening. I got married a few months ago. I know, the last time you saw me, I was a mere child. I miss you, a lot. And I miss you too, Charlie, if you're listening. If not, sorry, I won't be repeating that. Alice and I are expecting…we're having a child, granddad. I am really happy, and scared. But I really love her. I wish you were here, to see me now. I'm not the same boy I was. I've grown. And…I think you'd be proud of me."

In the pit of Hatter's stomach, he knew all this was true. "Rest in peace, granddad," he said. "And Charlie." Then he settled back, and closed his eyes, ready for a long nights sleep. "Rest in peace," he whispered, before sleep's claws had pulled him under.

* * *

Charlie Robert Hamilton - they'd taken Alice's last name, for sending their kid off to school with the last name Hatter was probably a death trap - now at the age of six, approached his father eagerly. Alice, who could be seen from Hatter's angle was out in their garden, sitting on the hammock, resting. She flashed him a smile that screamed, "Not my turn today."

Sighing tiredly, he turned toward his son. "Yes?" he asked politely, smiling at him.

"Guess what! I had a really fun day at school today." He was beaming, which in turn, made Hatter smile.

"That's good son," Hatter commented. He turned to look at Alice, who had now entered their home from the back door and began working on the pile of dishes in the sink. Hatter glared at her, but she just grinned. He loved his son, but he was awfully exhausted, and not in the mood for story time.

"My teacher, she-she told us a story today!" He exclaimed in a whisper, smiling his carefree little boy smile. Hatter missed those days in his life; not having to give a damn, your only concerns how to hold your pencil correctly.

"Really?" Hatter asked interestedly. He reached out to his son, pulling him onto his lap. "A story about what?"

Now he smiled with his whole mouth, showing his missing front teeth. "Alice in Wonderland! She read the story to us, and-and when I told her my mom's name was Alice, she laughed and said, 'Then-then maybe the story's about her'."

Hatter threw a glance at Alice, who was laughing under her breath and shaking her head. "Did Alice meet a dashing owner of a tea shop and fall in love with him in this story?" Hatter asked, trying to ignore the outburst of Alice's laughter on the word, 'dashing.'

"No!" He laughs. "But she met this crazy guy called The Mad Hatter!"

Alice guffawed, keeling over and holding her sides from her raucous laughter. Hatter glared at her. He wasn't 'mad.' He was sane as could be. "But I liked him," Charlie continued. "He was really cool, and-and Alice was really weird!"

It was Hatter's turn to laugh. And laugh, he did. Nearly knocking Charlie off his lap in the process of his chuckles. Alice flickered dishwater off her fingertips onto the back of Hatter's neck.

Hatter loved these moments, these moments with his family. When they were all together in a playful environment. As Charlie got older and became, well, a teenager, the chance that there would be moments like this were slim. So when they came around, he was thoroughly grateful.

"Tomorrow we're gonna watch the cartoon of Alice in Wonderland. I hope that I get to go to Wonderland one day. Billy, he-he told me it wasn't real, but I think it is. Do you think it's real, Daddy?"

Hatter smiled at Charlie. "Of course I do."

Charlie jumps off his lap, regarding his father with his Alice-colored eyes. That was the only way to describe them: her own kind blue, Alice's blue. "You're kind of like the Mad Hatter."

Hatter frowned slightly. "Why is that?"

"Because you always wear a hat!" And as his son flounced off into the living room, he touched the hat sitting atop his head.

"Yeah," he mused. "I do."

"You're gonna tell him one day, aren't you?" Alice asked from behind him, her arms wrapping around his chest. He leans into her, sighing in content.

"Maybe when he's older," he confirmed. "I'll tell him. When he's less likely to blab."

Alice kissed his cheek. "I think he'd like seeing where his father came from."

"Yeah," Hatter agreed. "I think he would."

* * *

When Charlie turned eighteen, Hatter knew it was time to tell him. Tell him the truth - about Wonderland, about everything. He'd confirmed it with Alice, and knew that, well, Charlie ought to know.

He knocked on Charlie's door, wondering how his son would react to finding out his childhood dream was real? Would he be surprised? Would he be elated?

"What?" Charlie growled, swinging the door open. His dark hair is mused, sticking out like the tendrils of an octopus, and he wears a grumpy expression. It is, after all, eight thirty in the morning. Even Hatter was reluctant to get out of bed this morning.

"Get dressed, I want you to come somewhere with me," he told Charlie; he missed the young Charlie, the one who was awake before him and Alice, the one who was so excited to tell them his little stories or play with his imaginary friends. Parenthood, Hatter had concluded, is depressing.

"It's too early," Charlie commented, and started to swing his door shut. Hatter swung his foot out to stop it, and Charlie gave him an annoyed look.

"Just get dressed." He turned and sauntered off, to wait for Charlie in the comfort of his living room.

---

"Wow," Charlie breathed.

"What do you think, Son?" Hatter asked, regarding Charlie's shocked expression.

"It's…real," he breathed, drinking it all in. They began to walk around, Hatter giving him the full tour.

This was not something Hatter remembered all too well. The day was a quick flash in his head - Charlie's excitement, Hatter's reluctance to let Charlie stay. All of it, the perfect chance to spend time with his son - his son, his graduating son. Hatter knew Charlie would leave soon, for college.

So he savored that day.

* * *

Hatter sits back as he reels in all these memories. These were what made him who he was - all the little moments. The sad, the happy, the angry, and the crazy. All of them lumped together to make Hatter….well, Hatter.

Again, he doesn't know when his life began. It could have been any of those moments - Charlie's birth, their wedding, meeting March and losing him. "Life begins when something happens that's worth remembering."

And all of those, all those fuzzy memories and all the vivid ones - well, weren't they worth a slot in his memory? As miniscule, as unimportant they may seem to an outside observer - well they all meant something to him.

The sad moments, the deaths, the births - or in his case, _birth _- the moments where he detached himself from home, and the moments he returned. The heartbreak, the fistfights, and the falling in love all over again - all laced together, all intertwining to tell the tale of Hatter.

_So when did my life begin? _He thinks as he stares at the swinging pendulum of the grandfather clock - swing, swing, swing…A representation of the passing of time, of more memories being made. When did his life begin?

For now, he was content with not knowing.


End file.
